


The Advantages of Yielding

by otherwiseestella



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Banter, Bull's Chargers, Dirty Talk, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Iron Bull is a Good Friend, Kissing, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Inquisition, Strap-Ons, antivan brandy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-17 02:33:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11266122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherwiseestella/pseuds/otherwiseestella
Summary: Krem's pretty fucking delighted with life in the Chargers. He finally feels like things are going his way.There's just the little matter of... well. He's not a virgin, exactly, and he certainly doesn't want to talk about it with Iron Bull.But there's good alcohol, and a long night in a tavern, and, really, what's the worst that can happen?Porn! With plot, and with a whole dollop of fluff.





	The Advantages of Yielding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tullypoems](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tullypoems/gifts).



> I have never fallen in love with characters as hard or as fast as Krem & The Iron Bull. I'm hoping this will be a series.
> 
> However, I'm a cis female, so! If anything in here is bullshit, or upsetting, or you think I could improve it, please let me know. 
> 
> (I'm really, really sorry that trans people still have to undertake emotional labour on behalf of ignorant cis people. I did a lot of research, particularly via outlets like Chase Ross's 'You're So Brave' podscast, and FTM magazine, but I'm still aware I could have fucked up anyway.)

Iron Bull had rescued Krem right in the middle of a Chargers’ mission. The Chargers’ camp, he’d explained, was tucked out of sight of that gods-forsaken border town by a brow of low hills. The walk had seemed endless.

On the way there, they’d been silent, Bull pressing rags hard against his eye socket to keep the pressure up, Krem trying to breath through the pain in his ribs.

When they’d reached camp, the circle of tents was so well concealed it looked deserted. That was, until a man – Stitches, Krem now knew – had burst out of one of the tents, taken a good look at Iron Bull, and let out a long, low whistle:

‘I see you left your eye and gained a ‘vint. Hope it was worth it?’

Bull had grunted. Stitches, undeterred, had pulled the rags away. In credit to his experience, he barely flinched when he saw the mess underneath. 

‘Fucking flails’, he’d said, reaching for a kettle of hot water and some herbs that smelled like vinegar and out-house. ‘Guess you brought the ‘vint along for depth perception, huh?’

But after that, he’d cleaned Krem’s wounds, and hadn’t looked twice at the bloodied bindings, and hadn’t tried to remove them, and hadn’t minded when Krem kept silent.

For the next three days, Krem had stayed in camp, sleeping and chewing elfroot. It wasn’t that he wasn’t needed, Bull explained. He was. Bull had seen how he moved, how he’d had the best of at least four of the six men round him: ‘Vint army training, solid, plus you fight like a cornered wolf. It’s impressive.’

He’d be a good Charger. But his first mission wasn’t going to be a raid on the same border town he’d almost been killed in. Bad use of resources. So he stayed at camp, kept watch, and bloody well kept his wounds in clean bandages. They’d need him in good shape, Bull had said, for the next job.

During the long nights, he’d kept quiet over the fire, listening, watching. The way Dalish put her head on Stitches’s shoulder; the slight change in Grim’s grunts that signalled amusement. Rocky’s clear, observant field reports. Dalish’s circling of the camp, humming low, doing, she insisted, no elven magic whatsoever. The way the tent poles glowed a little blue when she’d finished. Bull’s dirty stories.

They’d asked him gentle questions. Did all ‘vints wear such heavy fucking armour? Where’d he get that accent from? It wasn’t Minrathous. Did ‘vint soldiers play Wicked Grace? He’d really never played Wicked Grace? What did they do all day, play chess and bow to mages? 

On the fourth night, when they’d cleared the last of the slave smugglers out of the border town, they were loud with victory and looking forward to next day’s pay. Dalish had kissed Stitches full on the mouth at the end of the fight, and Bull hadn’t stopped chuckling. They had rolled back to camp, bottles in hand, to find Krem, standing by the dead fire, sword drawn. Around him, four bodies. Two longsworders, an archer and, of all things, a mage, staff still gripped in his dead hands.

‘Evening, Chargers’, Krem grinned, his face bloody but his smile wide. ‘We had company, but I told them they weren’t staying for dinner.’

‘Andraste’s left bollock’, Dalish breathed. ‘You took out a lightning mage and an archer?’

Krem just smiled. ‘Sorry I haven’t moved the bodies, yet, Chief, but I thought you’d want to check ‘em for identifiers. I’m not au fait with the smuggling rings round here.’

‘Also, you wanted to show off what a bloody great mess you’d made’, Iron Bull rumbled.

‘Well, yeah,’ Krem rubbed dirty fingers through his short brown hair. ‘Bit of that, too.’

The bodies were sell-swords, looked like, although one had Hessarian Blade weapons that made Bull suck his teeth. Good coin on them, though, and good weapons. Stitches was delighted: one of them had a pack full of elfroot, and the mage had bottles of blue lyrium that Bull passed to Dalish ‘to dispose of’. She looked smug. Grim insisted on salvaging some bloodied boots, and Skinner found tobacco and a slim bone pipe. 

Bull had taken Krem to one side. ‘That was… five minutes later and we’d have been ambushed. Thanks, Krem.’

‘Chief’, Krem said, face reddening slightly, ‘stop it, or you’ll make me blush like a nug in heat’.

Iron Bull snorted a laugh, and clapped Krem on the shoulder.

It had all been so wonderful, those first four days, and that’s what made the evening so frustrating. It should have been great – better than great. They’d marched a long way, sure, but they were away from the border now, the land greening and levelling out. What’s more, they’d found a village with an inn that not only had ample rooms and ample food: it had baths. Baths. Cremisius Aclassi was a warrior, a man of stalwart bravery and excellence. His single weakness: the siren call of a nice long bath. Maybe with sweet oils. Maybe with a brandy.

Bull had gathered them round in the bar, all nursing pints, squatting on low benches at long tables. ‘Chargers’, he’d roared, fondly. ‘Good job. Paid well too. Impressive work, even if Krem stayed home and still beat you all in headcount. Here’s to good jobs, good coin, good fighting!’ 

They lifted their glasses. 

‘Now, don’t shit your pants, but the gold on those bandits was enough to cover beds, baths, and company tonight. They’re all on me.’ 

The noise the Chargers made caused the rest of the inn to look round in surprise, as if a small earthquake had started in one corner of the building. They were all grinning from ear to ear. They stood, drinks in hand, and began mulling around the inn, scouting out options. All except Rocky, who took a small bag of coin that Bull lobbed across the table, and headed straight upstairs, and Krem, who stayed sitting by Iron Bull, staring down his pint.

They had been sitting there for some minutes in comfortable silence. In the background, Krem could hear Dalish saying ‘no, no, we come as a pair’, to someone with a heavy Orlesian accent. 

‘So, not for you, huh?’ Iron Bull asks, keeping his eyes on his pint.

Oh. So they’re going to talk about this. Krem swallows, feeling his stomach contract.

‘Its not – I don’t – I…’ he begins, trailing off.

‘You don’t have to answer, you know. I just, it’s good for me to know what my team like off the field. Tends to help out on the field.’

‘Of course, chief.’ Krem is sure his ears are pinking up. He takes a long swallow of Ferelden beer, with its taste of sunshine and hay. ‘So, what do your team like?’

‘You want to guess, little ‘vint? Make a game of it?’

‘Yeah, all right’, Krem grins. A game. Draw things out, make Bull laugh, keep him from asking Krem too many questions.

‘Fine. You get one wrong, you answer a question. You get them all correct, I’ll cover your bar tab.’

‘You might be Ben-hassrath, Qunari, but I didn’t learn nothing in the army. Prepare to meet my taste in Antivan Brandy.’ He glances up at the bar. They’ve a golden ’59 that he’s been curious about since they walked in. That should do nicely.

Iron Bull takes a swig of ale, and Krem starts ticking them off on his fingers: ‘So. Rocky gets cash and goes upstairs. Not into any of it, my guess.’

Iron Bull nods. ‘Yup. Works all his aggression out with a hammer any time he’s near a forge.’

Iron Bull’s smile suits him, Krem thinks. Breaks up the enormity of his musculature. He’s shown off well like this, in candlelight, his dark grey skin bathed warm and almost glowing. Krem swallows, fast. Bull grins at a bar maid and before he can think about it, there’s a little glass of brandy in front of him, pretty and gold. Krem hadn’t even mentioned which bottle he wanted. He can feel his mouth water, pulls it down in a short, hot swallow, slams the glass down.

‘Andraste’s tits, that’s good.’

Bull clears his throat, waits for Krem to continue. In the background, the bard is starting up a slow waltz, the scrape of chairs as people get up to dance.

 

‘Dalish and Stitches. Together, but they like a third. Woman, judging by the way Dalish looks at the arse of every noblewoman we see. Likes ‘em from Orlais, I’d reckon.’

The look on Bull’s face. The way his eyebrow raises over the eye patch that makes Krem feel – but he pushes that down, that’s not for tonight and anyway, the point is that he’s never seen Bull shocked before, never seen anything less than certainty on that broad, scarred face. Then, he breaks into a shit-eating grin. ‘Cremisius Aclassi, you sly bastard. Heard them hiring, didn’t you?’

 

Krem smiles, shifts in his seat and raises his hands, ‘you got me, Chief. I’ll cede my brandy, if you like, since you’ve just had a nasty shock. I’ve ears sharper than Dalish, so watch what leaks out your tent...’

But the brandy comes, and this time Bull joins him. It’s sweet and it works its way down his throat like it’s trying to bring him pleasure, like it wants him to relax. He’s not sure, but he thinks he might have made a noise that sounds – well. He can’t help it: flicks his tongue against the bottom of the shot glass, gathers up the last few drops. Lifts his eyes to see Bull, looking intently at something on the table, fists curled. Clears his throat.

‘Right. Grim. Nice Ferelden girl, quiet fuck round the back, likes to sleep by himself.’

Bull laughs. ‘Affirmative, Cremisius. You’ve seen the way he guards that bedroll’.

‘Like a mabari with a wheel of cheese.’

They chuckle for a moment. Krem can feel the colour in his cheeks from the brandy. Army taught him to drink though, reckons he’s got two more in him until he starts to sway. Only good things the army taught him: to drink and kill and hide. He swallows, pushes the cold feeling back down. He’s in a brightly lit inn with a Qunari the size of a Greater Frostback. He doesn’t have to panic now.

‘Annnnnd’, Krem beats a drumroll on the table, ‘Skinner. No Shems, no dwarves, no great horned arseholes. Just leaves elves, don’t imagine she’s fussy either way.’

Bull clears his throat, leans back in his chair to give Krem an appraising look. ‘One more, soldier, before I tell you if that’s right.’ The look he gives Krem is gentle, questioning, but it makes something inside Krem heat up, ever so slightly. Which is. No. It’s probably the brandy.

‘You, chief? I know what the Qun says, enough Qunari knocking about in Tevinter. And with horns like that? Bet you’re turning ‘em away. Don’t imagine you’re too fussy about who… rides the Iron Bull.’

The corners of Krem’s mouth twitch, and yeah, he’s probably blushing proper now. Looks up at the Chief and he’s…preening? Doing something with his horns, flexing the tops of his shoulders, so the muscles make the candlelight dance. It’s somehow not unpleasant.

‘So how’d I do? Next two on you?’ He’s done it, surely. Won the game, and he can go slip into a steaming copper bath and nurse his final brandy. And then clean sheets, and nobody next to him in the tent, snoring. He can feel the tension draining out of his shoulders, until Bull leans forward, mouth almost at Krem’s ears.

‘Skinner only fucks Shem girls. Fetish thing. Likes ‘em reallll loud. That’s one question for me, Cremisius, or the drinks are on you.’

‘Go ahead and ask, Chief. You’ll get either an answer or a brandy.’ But Krem knows his voice has pitched, just a tiny bit. Nervous.

Of course, Bull knows about…that. Overheard the soldiers yelling slurs at him, for a start. Heard him yelling back, stupid, futile, ‘I’m not a woman’. But then Bull had said something nice and quiet, back at camp. Explained about Aqun-Athlok and asked him if Stitches could check under his shirt before letting the healer into his tent. Introduced him, loud and no-questions, as Cremisius Aclassi, ‘vint soldier. If the rest of the Chargers had questions, he certainly hadn’t been bothered by them. Bull was looking out for him. But it was always there. That little flicker of fear. 

‘So, Lieutenant. Tell me. Who do you like to take to your bed?’

Krem chokes, almost as hard as that time he drank a pint standing on his hands in the army and it all ran out his nose. Iron Bull has to clap him on the back until it stops.

He rolls his shoulders back. Tips his chin up, meets Iron Bull’s sparkling eyes: ‘Its like this, chief. I’m easy. Not as easy as you, mind, but then you’d have to search the length of Thedas for that.’

Bull is regarding him levelly. He’s got that face on, the one Krem refers to privately as his ‘Ben-Hasrath face’. The one where he’s weighing up all the information to hand.

‘I won’t push it, don’t worry,’ he rumbles. ‘But if you do ever want to talk about whatever it is that’s got you hanging out with your boss when you could be in the sheets, I’ll listen.’

If life has taught Krem anything, it is this: never drink a pint standing on your hands. That, and there’s no point postponing anything awkward. He remembers Greyson, the recruit trainer, bawling at them all in the yard: ‘Its going to hurt, men, and it’ll keep hurting ‘till you die or retire. Might as well get that first blow over with now.’ Six years on, it was still a good lesson. 

‘Its like in combat, chief.’ His voice is quiet, against the noise of the pub, but he knows Bull can hear him. Maker knows, his ears are big enough.

‘Attack is fine. Great. Attacked enough to feel, yeah, like a good soldier.’ Flicks Bull a look. ‘A really, really good soldier.’

A beat of silence. The barkeeper with the quiet footsteps of a retired archer, sets another brandy in front of him. He swallows it gratefully.

‘But I fight with a shield. Never been attacked. Not sure…’ He puffs his cheeks out. ‘Maker, I’m doing a shit job.’

He takes a breath: ‘I fuck, Bull. I don’t… you know. So when I’m knackered, a hot bath feels better. I don’t need to hide in a hot bath, at least, right? Can actually take my smallclothes off, for once.’

Bull sets his jaw, looks thoughtful. Runs one hand down his neck, as if he’s chasing an itch.

Krem, on the other side of the table, bites the inside of his mouth and wishes he could disappear into the floor. Way to leave yourself exposed, Aclassi, he thinks. Bull’s not exactly discrete, Ben-Hassrath or not, and he doesn’t want the Chargers up his arse, joking about him being… Well. A virgin, more or less. 

And the worst thing is that the constant hiding and lying and jumping at shadows means he’s never even, really... He cringes at all the times he’s slipped back into his own barracks after a quick fumble, still slick and aching, too scared of discovery even to rub between his own legs. Or walked home from a tavern, hands still sticky with some girl’s slick, desperate to wash it off so he wasn’t flushed and dizzy with the scent any longer, so he didn’t have to do something about it, and feel the lack in himself.

He’s about to get up, excuse himself from the mess and go upstairs, when Bull turns to him. His face is set carefully, as if he’s trying to keep a particular tell from showing. When he speaks, it’s far gentler than Krem could have anticipated.

‘And I am right in thinking that you do not wish this state to continue?’

‘No shit, Bull,’ Krem says, puffing his cheeks. ‘But we can’t all be Qunari the size of barns. Even if nobody here wants to sell me into slavery its still…complicated.’ He gestures vaguely, bitterly, up and down his body. Even in rest clothes, thick dark cloth doublet, he still feels too soft, too exposed.

‘But you’re a good fighter, right?’ Bull continues, as if Krem hadn’t spoken. He raises an eyebrow, gives Krem a sly grin.

‘Doubt I’d have been hired, otherwise’, Krem shoots back. ‘Reckon you spotted my obvious talents right away, Chief.’

There’s a grumble in the back of Bull’s throat as Krem slides his fingers through his short chestnut hair. 

‘Look, Krem,’ Bull says, and his face is suddenly serious. ‘You’re a good man, good member of our team. Wouldn’t want to fuck that up. But if you ever need any practical help with…letting down your defences, then you know where I am.’

Maker’s holy bollocks. Krem’s jaw won’t cooperate, suddenly, won’t let him get the words out. ‘Are you taking the piss, Chief?’

Iron Bull huffs a laugh. ‘I can be, if you’d rather. But I was serious.’

‘Oh’, Krem’s mind goes perfectly blank, for a second. Suddenly, he’s back in that run-down border inn, hot blood across his face from when Bull took the head off the last Tevinter soldier, the feel of Bull’s arms as he carried him out of the building after the legs had gone out from under him. 

Then, at the camp, Bull’s calloused fingers helping him with his armour buckles, first time he put the new stuff on. How he’d pretended not to notice Krem’s wet eyes when the Tevinter insignia on his old stuff went up in flames. The way he still called him Lieutenant, like it was his, even though the army had kicked him out.

He thought of the way Bull laughed, deep, from his belly, when Krem did something well. The way he smelled, like sea salt and leather and ale. Krem touched the bottom of his doublet, wondering at the funny twist of heat in his stomach, like smoke from a campfire. 

It wasn’t like he hadn’t had friends in the army. Tanner, with his gap-teeth and his funny, loping walk. Hershaw, big hands, who used to do cartwheels in the training ring in the evenings, work off his excess energy. Imp, who never seemed to put on any muscle, lithe and light as a beanpole, demon with a crossbow. They’d known, surely. Shared his dorm, always been helpfully absent when he needed a piss on training drills or needed to change a shirt. 

But not like this. Not like Bull and the Chargers. Not like Bull’s laid-back, total acceptance of him. The way he’d tossed Krem a cloth sack, saying it was full of ripped Charger uniforms and maybe he could darn them, and Krem had found three new binding shirts folded at the bottom.

The way he spars with him, until he can hold a Qunari-fucking-two-handed blade like he came out the womb with it. The way he keeps pushing him, to do this, that, to get better, stronger. The way he listens when Krem makes suggestions, lets him pore over the maps, redraws the lines if Krem sees a mistake. Pats him on the back after.

And it occurs to Krem that, fuck it. He wants to get laid. Wants to feel something between his legs that isn’t burning frustration. And Bull? Bull will look after him. Bull’s huge, and kind, and could rip him limb from limb but won’t. And – well. Its not like the great ox is hard on the eyes, exactly.

He feigns nonchalance. ‘Alright, Chief. You want to…?’

‘Upstairs. Your bedroom. Give me twenty minutes.’

‘Sir.’ Krem climbs the stairs, and closes the bedroom door behind him.

He picks his armour up, arranges it in on a chair. The water in the ewer still holds the ghost of heat, so he splashes it over his face, his neck. He sweated all day on the march, but fuck having a standing bath, if Bull hasn’t either. He pushes down breeches and smallclothes, though, wipes himself. It is only then that it occurs to him to panic. His heart suddenly decides that it wants to climb out of his body, and starts beating so hard he worries they can hear it downstairs. He breathes. Slips his smallclothes and breeches back on, but lifts off the padded doublet. The shirt underneath is loose enough, and his binding is on. Moments like this, he wishes he carried a book in his pack, something to keep his mind busy.

He’s not sure where to sit, doesn’t want Chief to walk in on him lounging on the bed expectantly, like some sort of bloody Altus. He settles for perching on the edge of the bed, cleaning his knives. They’re barely used, hardly dirty, but it keeps the tremble out of his hands, and the reality of what he’s agreed to out of his head. They’re lovely daggers. Orlesian, with griffons carved into the front quillons. Dalish had given them him one evening. Didn’t fight with Shem weapons, she said. Her loss. They feel good, solid in his hand. 

A knock at the door. He makes a little noise in his throat that must mean ‘come in’, because the door opens and Iron Bull enters, ducking under the low lintel. Its only indoors, really, that Krem realises just how huge the guy is, how weird it must be for him to navigate a world built for bodies a third shorter, a third smaller. In Seheron, presumably, all the doors are leagues high, and wide enough for horns.

He’s got a bottle in one hand – ale, not brandy – and glasses in the other. He looks exactly as he always does. Extraordinary, like some mage went out and bewitched a handsome mountain.

‘Thought you might have brought Orlesian wine, chief, since you’re coming to deflower me.’

Bull booms a laugh: ‘Nah. Mercs get ale and they like it.’

He sits down on the bed as if it’s his own, and pours out two glasses. Krem leans over to get one, but before he can close his hand around it, Bull’s hand is on top of his. He searches out Krem’s eyes, stares into them. ‘Look. This is – there’s gonna be fun stuff, but there might be hard shit too. You had enough? You say katoh. Just that one word, I stop whatever I’m doing, we’re doing. Completely.’

‘You’re giving us a watchword,’ Krem’s voice is quiet. ‘I’ve only ever heard of that. In Minrathous there are these clubs, people say, and they…’

Bull smiled. ‘Nothing like that. Just a good, safe way for me to know if its time to stop.’

They sit together on the edge of the bed for a second. Quiet, nervous, although Krem can’t imagine the Chief ever actually feeling nervous. And then, from through the wall, they hear a slow, rhythmic sighing, which quickly builds to a moan. Then two moans, then three. Then, a heavy Orlesian accent leaks through the door: ‘Oh! I didn’t know you could do ‘zat with it!’ 

They catch each other’s eyes, and Bull smirks, and Krem bursts out laughing, and then there they are. Bull slides a hand along Krem’s jaw – Andraste’s shivering tits his hands are so big, so strong – and kisses him.

 

It doesn’t start off chaste: it is filthy. Bull worries at Krem’s bottom lip, softly, and then flicks his tongue onto the tender spot. Krem groans, opens his lips so he can taste Bull properly. Ale, brandy, on both of them, and it sends a shiver through him. He licks into Bull’s mouth, and Bull lets him, doesn’t fight for dominance, but gives him time to savour, explore. Slides his hands to the nape of Krem’s neck, and pets him, lightly, over the short hair there. It feels incredible, makes Krem redouble his efforts, nip and lick obscenely until Bull makes a deep, low rumble in his chest. Krem wants, Maker’s breath, so many things, runs one hand up the side of Bull’s head, reaching up until he can stroke tentatively over the join between horn and skin. He runs his nails over the join, increasing the pressure when he hears Bull – whine? – whatever the noise is, it sends a shiver of heat down his spine. 

Bull’s skin is warm – qunari run hot – and the feeling of his scars under Krem’s fingers is addictive. He finds the buckles of his harness, starts undoing it. It falls to the floor with a soft thump, and then Bull fists one hand into Krem’s hair, and falls gently backwards, until he’s lying on the bed, Krem on top of him.

From his sitting position, Krem surveys the view. ‘Fasta vass, Chief’, he says, ‘you look… unreal.’

Bull sighed: ‘You’re not looking so bad yourself. Might look better without a shirt on, though.’

Krem pinks at his words, rolls his shoulders. ‘Well if you want it off, Chief, you’ll have to do it yourself.’

Iron Bull smiles, sits up slightly, grabs Krem by the shoulders and pulls him down, so that the man’s all but lying on top of the him. Naturally, Krem hands fall onto Iron Bull’s shoulders for balance, and he can feel the heat of his grey skin, the muscles and sinew underneath, so strong. Then, he feels Iron Bull’s fingers on his buttons. Something inside him thinks ‘no, stop’ – no one else had ever been allowed near his buttons. In fact, he can’t ever remembering doing this as undressed as he is currently, in only a shirt and breeches.

Something must be showing in his face, because Iron Bull’s eyes flick up to meet his.

‘You know the word, right?’ He says.

‘Yes Chief’, Krem replies, ‘But I’m not using it right now.’

Iron Bull smiles, keeps undoing the buttons. Because Krem’s weight is on his hands, the shirt doesn’t come off, but rather pulls down to expose his shoulders, and the top of his arms, and his collar bone, and the thin top line of his binder. 

‘Fuck’, Iron Bull breathes. ‘you’re ‘vint army, I knew you’d be strong, but fuck, Krem, you look, you’re…’

There is a slight hesitation, as if Bull is searching for the right word.

‘Fucking handsome, Chief? That what you’re looking for?’ Krem laughs, leans forward, licks a strip up Iron Bull’s neck which makes him take his breath in, quick.

Krem slides forward, into another hungry kiss, except this time, Iron Bull’s hands can go what feels like everywhere. Over the muscles of his shoulders, down the length of his back under the shirt, skating over his binder. Onto his stomach. It tickles, and he lets out a breathy laugh, into Bull’s mouth. Bull increases the pressure of his strokes, and then it doesn’t tickle any more, it… kaffas, it feels like being bathed in fire. Bull licks into his mouth in response, rubbing over and over his stomach. Its not a particularly elegant form of contact, but Krem’s enjoying it all the same. It’s strange: as he curls into the touch, letting little whimpers fill his throat, he barely notices the binder, except when he tries to take in a full breath. When he used to imagine someone touching it, it made him feel sick, but Bull’s running his hands over it like its just another part of Krem’s clothing. It doesn’t feel so bad. Curiously, whilst still nipping sharp kisses down the thickness of Bull’s neck, Krem runs one hand lower, over Bull’s pecs, reaching a nipple. Bull flinches.

‘Not for you, Chief?’

‘Andraste’s tits. Yes. Just… careful. They might be out all day, but they’re more sensitive than they look.’ 

Krem keeps kissing him, getting lower, moving across Bull’s collar bone. His skin is so thick, Krem’s amazed he can feel such light touches, but Iron Bull’s whole body seems to shiver in time with them. Krem isn’t sure that he’s ever made out with someone in so much light, been able to see their reactions so well, and Iron Bull’s face and body hide nothing of his pleasure from Krem. Its fun. Its nice, seeing what this kiss or that one might do. He licks and nips lower, until he can lick flat and hard against one of Bull’s nipples, moving back to suckle at it. That earns him an extremely low moan in response.

‘Hands up, Krem’, comes a breathless voice from below him. ‘I want to take your shirt off. Off off.’ 

Krem sits back, takes his shirt off and chucks it onto the chair where is armour is piled. Sits, for a moment, straddling Bull’s hips, watching as Bull’s eyes rake over him. There. He feels it. The slickness building between his legs. He feels heavy, down there, wet. Usually it makes him feel scared, but he feels alright. Especially when Bull runs a reverent hand down one arm.

‘Reckon you’d freckle in the sun’, Bull says,

‘Yeah I do.’ Krem replies, and then, ‘You like freckles, Boss?’

Iron Bull smiles: ‘Qunari can’t freckle. They’re a pleasurable novelty for us.’

‘Well’, Krem flexes, smirks at him, ‘Reckon I’d better start turning up to drills with my shirt off, then.’

‘Show everyone what they’re missing, huh?’

‘Something like that.’

Krem positions himself back over the qunari. They kiss and touch for quite a while, and it’s bliss. He starts to roll his hips, gently, fractionally, catching sparks of heat as he rubs against Bull. That is, until he feels Bull’s hands settle over stilling at the base of his binding, feels a question forming in the air.

‘I don’t take it off, Chief.’ Krem says.

‘That’s not a problem,’ Iron Bull replies. ‘I just want to check you can breathe.’

‘No’, Krem snorts, shocked that he’s telling Bull the truth. ‘Well, not really. Look, Chief. You get me properly breathless, we talk about it. For now, it stays. Unless you wanna do this with a blindfold on.’

Iron Bull licks his lips. ‘Wouldn’t be averse, ‘vint’, he says, sweetly, ‘but I’d miss looking at you.’

‘Don’t blame you’, Krem drawls. Suddenly wanting the attention anywhere else. Suddenly realising he’d like to see his boss in significantly fewer clothes. 

‘Can I?’ Gestures to Bull’s trousers, his belt. Bull inclines his head. The metal of the belt is warm against his fingers, so hard and unyielding in contrast to Bull’s skin. He lifts his hips, and Krem draws the trousers down his legs, thumbs hooked under Bull’s smallclothes, so they come too.

Black Divine on his crimson throne. Krem feels like the air’s been punched out of his lungs. He feels his cunt clench, feel empty, and he’s pretty sure that’s never happened before. On instinct, he leans forward, close, until he’s almost touching it. Breathes in. Maker, but Bull reeks. Of musk and desire and kaffas, he wants his tongue on it, wants it in his mouth, wants it… He’s seen cocks. In dorms, in taverns, in small back rooms and narrow alleys but this, Iron Bull’s cock. This is something else.

‘That’s right. Take a moment, get yourself properly introduced. Least you aren’t a fainter. Krem, this is…’

Even in his heady state, mouth watering, sweat pricking along his hairline, Krem twists his lips into a smirk. ‘Of course your cock has a name, Chief. What is it, Little Bull?’

That earns him a rumble of amusement. ‘Steel Bull, actually. Even harder than Iron. Heh.’

Krem looks up, rolls his eyes, and, as if in challenge, flicks his tongue over the head of Iron Bull’s beautiful, magisterial, entirely fucking oversized cock. And he can’t help it. The head’s damp, the precum beading beautifully. It’s evidence, of a sort, that this isn’t some pity fuck for Bull. That he means this. And he can’t help but moan, low in his throat, when he finally gets to taste Bull. Sour-sweet, salty, and that underlying musk that is so obviously his captain.

He leans forward, settling himself comfortable between Bull’s thighs. Laves kisses and licks up his inner thighs, can’t help himself but follow scarlines, suck and nip where he reckons Bull is sensitive. He’s right. Bull rumbles like stones off a mountain, and he works his way up. Stops at the dark, coarse hair where Bull’s cock starts, can’t help but bury his face there, inhale. Grin. He can’t believe he’s doing this. No rush, no hurry, no shame. He brings his face up, spits into one hand like he’s going to shine plate armour. Closes a hand around Bull’s cock, rubs the tip, gently, obscenely, over his own swollen lips.

When he opens his mouth, swallows – and sweet Maker, Bull’s big – Bull almost jerks off the bed. 

‘Krem…’ He breathes out, the sound deep and breathless. ‘You…you don’t have to…’

‘Don’t give me that shit, Chief’, he says, pulling away, leaving a beautiful trail of spit and precum from his mouth to his cock. ‘I’m exactly where I want to be.’

Bull lies back down, settles his hips, reaches a heavy hand down, curls his fingers through Krem’s hair. ‘Well then, Lieutenant, best get back to it.’

And then it is Krem’s turn to groan, as the pressure of Bull’s hand in his hair guides him back down, over the head of his cock, down the shaft. He guides himself down, and what he can’t swallow, can’t run his tongue over, he wraps both hands around. He relaxes, lets his eyes close, lets his mouth and hands work over Bull’s cock in rhythm, guided by Bull’s breaths. So he likes it long and slow, does he? Krem let’s himself take Bull deep, deeper, until he’s almost gagging round him, trusting that Bull will let his head up, give him time to take a breath. Its delicious, and the noises he’s pulling out of Bull make him ache to be touched. He’s so slick, he’s pretty sure he’s spoiled his small clothes. He doesn’t ever remember wanting this much, wanting to actually be touched, wanting Iron Bull, to touch him. Fasta vass, but its strange, and he’s almost giddy with it.

Bull makes a pulled off choking sound, lifts Krem’s head off him. His cock is so hard, Krem swears he can see it pulsing in time to his heart beat. ‘Shit, Krem, I’m going to cum if you don’t stop.’

‘Worried you won’t be able to go again, Chief?’ Krem smirks, still working his hand dangerously up and down Bull’s shaft, teasing, avoiding the head. 

Bull bucks under his hand. ‘We’re not all – fuck, just like that – blessed with your anatomy.’

Krem stills, suddenly. Musters himself to say something. Swallows. Tries again. Bull’s sitting up, looking at him concerned.

‘Chief.’

Bull’s searching Krem’s face for discomfort, for any sign of the watchword, but its not there. He only feels his heart, hammering through his body, and he wonders if they can hear it down in the tavern. ‘Chief… is that true?’

And at that, Iron Bull throws his head back and roars with laughter. ‘Fucking ‘vints. Always forget they’re fucking idiots when it comes to fucking.’

Then he looks at Krem’s face and his voice softens. ‘Its true. Trust me, the number of… anyways. Yeah. Its true. And its…’ and his voice dips, ‘fucking hot’.

Krem watches the way Bull’s cock pulses, beads precum, just from the thought of it. Kaffas. 

‘That good, huh?’

Bull grins. ‘Want me to show you?’

Krem gestures downward. ‘Not finished here, Chief.’

‘Ha!’ Bull laughs. ‘Yeah, you are. At least until I get my breath back. So c’mere.’

He curls Krem off him, pulls him onto his back, and then, seeing a frown flit across Krem’s face, makes it clear that he’s not going to cover him. Lies beside him.

Bull sees Krem’s beautiful eyes, brown and glinting amber, watching him. Face so open, like he’s trusting him with his life. 

Fuck, what that does to Bull. Makes him feel like a single breeze would send him over the edge. Krem’s always looked at him like that – not dizzy with arousal, not desperate for his fingers – but open. Trusting. As if Bull was family, as if Bull was some sort of home.

He’d make this good. He always made it good, gave people what they wanted, what they’d like. But Krem? He’d do one better, give the man exactly what he needed. 

He takes Krem’s face in his hands, kisses him long, and slow and deep. Smirks against his lips the second he feels Krem realise just how filthy the kiss is. His own taste on Krem’s lips. He loves it.

Whispers in Krem’s ear, tongue tickling the lobe so it makes him wriggle. ‘Want me to call it anything particular?’

Krem rolls his eyes. ‘Wouldn’t have thought you’d give a fuck about names, qunari.’ He continues, ‘but I’ve got a cock and a cunt, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘Good ‘vint’, Bull rumbles, touching Krem’s arms, moving down across his stomach, to where his beautiful hip bones protrude. 

He bends his head to kiss across Krem’s stomach. He’s all chiselled lines, muscle. Lean, but sturdy. Soldier strong. Deadly strong. He drags calloused thumbs across Krem’s hip bones and listens as the man whines in his throat. Krem extends his arms, feeling for Bull, ends up running his nails across his horns. The little striations of the horn are so sensitive under this sort of pressure. It teases, makes him shudder. He wants Krem like this, writhing and pliable and panting under him, desperate, from no more than pressure over his hip bones, creeping lower.

Krem wonders if this is what it feels like to die in the arms of the Maker. Only vaguely, because he doesn’t much care either way and anyway that’s probably blasphemy but fuck fuck fuck, the heat in his stomach is fizzy, now, and he can feel himself arching off the bed, into Bull’s touch. He wants him to go lower, needs him to, wants to feel his fingers on him, his lips, anything. He closes his hands round Bull’s horns, uses them to arch off the bed again. Brings his hips up, rolling, until – there. He catches Iron Bull off guard, and his hands don’t come up quick enough to stop Krem rubbing up against Iron Bull’s chin. Such tiny pressure – so incomplete and quick – but its something against his aching cock. He tries to roll his hips again, chase the pressure, but Bull’s cottoned on, gently pushes his hips back down onto the bed.

‘Easy, Krem,’ he says, gently, and resumes his lazy stroking, now working the line just above Krem’s smallclothes. Krem notices that, even through his smallclothes, he’s left a line of slick on Bull’s chin. It looks filthy.

‘Kaffas. Fuck.’ Krem can’t do much more than twitch and moan. ‘Chief. Please. Please. Do something. I need something.’

‘Oh do you, now?’ Bull rumbles, ‘Any idea what that might be?’

Bull’s expecting a coy response. Something blushing and vague, a gesture, perhaps, a slipping-off of small clothes. 

‘I want you to jerk me off’, says Krem, and when Bull looks up, startled, Krem looks him right in the eye, ‘if that’s alright, Chief.’

It's then, with the sound of Krem’s broken breath in his ears that Bull finally, finally moves his hand down. Feels the heat pouring off Krem. Strokes lightly, so lightly down over his smallclothes. They’re so slick, almost transparent with wetness, and under them, Bull can see short, dark curls. He traces around Krem, a lazy line, round the curve of his inner thigh, then traces his outline. Krem is beautiful, compact and slick and scented and fuck, but Bull could cover himself in that scent, disappear into it. He moves his head ever so slightly closer, and lets his hand cup, lets the heel of his hand brush across where Krem’s cock is, under the underclothes.

 

Krem claps his hand over his mouth. It feels as if Bull is slowly, firmly, expertly, filling him up with lightning. It’s dizzying. He briefly thinks of everyone he’s touched between the legs: the writhing, the moaning, the bitten-off swearing. Refuses to believe it can have been this good for them. This? This is pure magic. Bull’s fingers are rubbing circles round his cock, making his breath so short he can almost see starts, making his hips twitch with every brush. Its maddening: so, so good, but not enough, not quite –

‘Under’, he manages to gasp out, ‘Bull, please.’

Vaguely, he’s aware that his smallclothes are ripped off, land on the end of the bed. And then – vishante kaffas – Bull’s fingers are on him. He can feel Bull gently opening him up, touching him – his fingers so, so hot without the protection of the smallclothes, his callouses perfect to drag across the most sensitive part of him, to circle round, teasing.

He wants more, he thinks. Wants faster, wants the heat that Bull is building inside him to burst into flames. Or that is what it feels like. Every bit of him tuned to his cock, to the pleasure that seems to snake through his whole body. He’s about to start jerking his hips under Bull’s touch, trying to make him go faster, when –

 

He feels the hot swipe of a tongue between his legs, and then the firm pull of lips around his cock. Sweet fucking Maker. It feels… fuck. It feels like Bull has lit a taper, sending licks of flame through his entire body, like he’s floating and tethered all at the same time. He can hear Bull’s low, steady hums of pleasure. He’s aware that he is gasping, moaning, his voice broken and ruined. He doesn’t care. ‘Bull, Bull…’ He’s muttering the Chief’s name like its the Chant of Light, like it's the only thing keeping him on the earth. And then Bull flicks his tongue up against his cock. Firm, quick, a merciless rhythm that makes him feel as if he’s about to, as if he’s going to…

And just as he fists his sheets in the bedclothes and throws back his head, the rhythm is gone, slowing to softer flicks, into licks, into lazy exploratory stripes of Bull’s clever tongue. Krem thinks he might actually kill The Iron Bull, might end him right now for being a fucking indecent torturer, and opens his mouth to say as much when Bull’s tongue…drops lower.

Bull can feel Krem’s pleasure building. He’s seconds away from giving in, from giving Krem what he’d like, but he pulls back. Slowly. He’s going to make Krem see stars when he comes, make him remember this one for the rest of his life. Krem’s cock is hard and hot and wonderful under Bull’s tongue, and it takes all his willpower to move back, to drop a little lower. He tastes perfect: salt and slick and so, so wet for him. So wet under Bull’s tongue, all wrecked and panting. Bull drags his tongue lower, and then pauses, deliberately, at the entrance to Krem’s cunt. He waits for something: for Krem to still, for him to call out the watchword. Above him, Krem just shudders, thrums, rolls his hips in a way that clearly says ‘get on with it’ - much to his delight. He wants to break off, to reach up and tell Krem how extraordinary he is, how brave and trusting. Some things, though, are best said with the mouth occupied. So he does.

Bull makes his cunt ache. Makes it feel empty, makes it clench around air. Krem grunts, frustrated. Years of fear, of nothing goes in there, of I’m not a fucking girl, and now this. This desire for something inside, for the sheer pleasure of it. Bull knows he’s not a girl. Bull fucks him because he’s a man, because he’s a soldier, because he’s one of Bull’s Chargers and because he wants him. Not so he can force him to be a woman, not so he can degrade him. And that makes Krem feel… extraordinary - in all sorts of ways. But mostly, right now, it makes him feel like he wants something in his cunt. So when Bull’s tongue presses in, hot and clever and how does he know how to do that, when Bull licks inside him, Krem can only open his mouth and yell. If they couldn’t before, the whole tavern can certainly hear him now.

‘Please. Bull. Fuck. Please. More, please, more.’ And he’s dragging his hips so Bull’s tongue can reach deeper, and he can’t work out what to do with his hands, so they’re rucking the sheets. And he can feel himself sweating, and all he wants, all he wants, is to be full, fuller.

‘You want my fingers, Lieutenant?’ Bull asks, grinning, lips so close to Krem’s cunt that it tickles. 

Probably he does. Krem isn’t sure. He’s got no idea about anything except more and please, and so he just repeats them, urgent, until he feels something blunt pressing against his entrance. And then he knows.

‘Yes, Chief, please’, he manages.

Iron Bull crooks his finger, slides it into Krem’s wet cunt slowly, and oh so carefully. He’s tight, and hot, and Bull keeps swiping his tongue gently across Krem’s cock as he pushes in. Iron Bull feels something tight in his throat. The tenderness of the moment, the honour that he would be the one to – now is not the time – he pushes the thought down, concentrates instead on Krem’s intoxicating little exhalations, the trembling of his thighs. Then, he bends his finger, finds the small, sweet spot inside Krem, and swipes the tip of his finger over it.

Krem lets out a string of Tevene that could set the bedclothes on fire. Bull is inside him, and it feels like home, it feels like proper fucking pleasure, like everything is suddenly right, and then he goes and moves and finds something, and Krem’s vision goes starry round the edges. Whatever it is, its right-fucking-there-Chief-please-Bull-fuck. And Andraste’s mercy, its like magic. Bull taps and the spot that makes Krem shout, fucks him in short, soft motions. He’s so wet, the sound is obscene, and it hangs in the air next to the concentrated humming coming from Bull, as he sucks and licks at Krem’s cock, in time to the movement of his finger.

He’s so full, and his cock is rigid under Bull’s tongue, swollen and throbbing and the he’s never been so turned on in his entire life. Bull must sense something, the way his breath hitches or his hands fist quicker and quicker, because he speeds up, just fractionally. Lathes and sucks Krem’s cock, the pressure almost too much, and he fucks him quicker, harder. Its like his body is going to explode. As if every part of him were gaat, and Bull was the match. Bull inside him, responding to the rhythm of his hips, making the filthy, wet sounds of fucking. Bull’s mouth on him.

Bull twists his finger inside him, bends forward again to rub over the special point and Krem and feel the world contract.

And then everything explodes.

He didn’t know anything could feel like this. His cunt starts clenching round Bull’s finger, so strong, so tight. He closes his eyes, and a sound rips out of his throat. The pleasure’s like waves breaking over him. He’s whimpering Bull’s name as he shudders. Fuck. His soul might tear out of his body. 

Another wave of pleasure, strong enough that he arches off the bed, riding it as long as he can, and then his body is wrung out with the hot, throbbing joy of it. 

He collapses onto the bed. Bull sits up, between his thighs, crawls up the bed to lie next to him. He grins down at the man beside him. 

Krem is sweaty, heart hammering in his chest, and he feels like he’s just fought a dragon. When Bull comes to lie next to him, he’s suddenly aware he’s got a ridiculous grin on his face.

‘Yeah, yeah, Chief’. he says, before Bull can say anything, ‘here I am, deflowered like a Denerim miller’s daughter’. But there’s warmth in his voice. He’s too sated sound anything but sleepy and well-fucked.

Bull snorts. ‘Right. All miller’s daughters have abs like you.’

Krem reaches down, absently, slips his palm into Bull’s. Bull takes his hand. Neither of them say anything, just lie, together, until their breathing settles.

After a while, Bull flicks his eyes to Krem’s face, checks in: ‘You doing ok? Feel weird or anything?’

Krem shakes his head. ‘Feel like a bit of a twat if I’m honest Chief. I mean, good, but a twat.’

Bull pauses, gives Krem the silence to continue. 

‘I didn’t know that – all those years, I’ve been so hung up on what’s down there, I didn’t even realise it could be like that’. So, eh, thanks.’

‘You don’t have to thank me, Lieutenant. It was a privilege.’

Krem basks in that, for a second, settles into Bull’s reassuring bulk, his heat. He’s almost asleep, but there’s something at the back of his mind. He sits up with a start. ‘Vishante kaffas. I’m sorry. You didn’t even…’

Bull reaches over, settles him back down. Krem realises, breath hitching a little, that he rather likes the sensation of being gently manhandled by his Chief, feeling the force of him even in these movements.

‘Relax, Krem-puff. I’m fine. If you want to go again, I’ll join in for the second round.’

A bubble of hysterical laughter is rising in Krem’s throat, shakes his body through the tiredness. ‘KREM-PUFF?’ The laughter overflows and he reaches up to brush tears off his cheeks He grasps Bull’s shoulder, and gales and gales of laughter hurtle out of his body.

‘Krem-puff? How long have you been –‘

‘Oh, since you told me your name. Gotta whole stack of them, if you want to hear…. Krem-puff, Kreme brulee, for if you ever get singed by a dragon, Krem de la crème, for when you’re doing well…’

Krem can’t speak. He’s laughing too hard. He motions Bull to stop, turns his face into his broad arms and howls with laughter. It mixes with Bull’s deep, hearty rumbling.

They fall into quiet, save the occasional ripples of Krem’s laughter whenever the thought surfaces again. Krem-puff. Better than his army nicknames. Absurd, ridiculous, and sort of perfect. 

Finally, Krem breaks the silence. ‘I need a piss.’, he says, flashing Bull a ridiculous smile. ‘And more ale. And food. And another fuck.’

He swings his legs over the bed. Bull ruffles his hair, affectionately. ‘That’s my boy. Don’t forget your trousers.’

The tavern is quiet. The fire has died down to a soft glow, and the few patrons who are left awake are talking softly in corners. Krem slips out the back to piss. The stars are bright, naked in the ink-night sky, and he can hear owls in the distance. The grass smells different, now they’re outside Tevinter. The whole world feels different, too. As if it might have space for him inside it. He can hear nugs, cheeping in a burrow somewhere. He smiles into the dark.

The patron loads the dishes. ‘For the one with the horns, yeah?’ he asks, and when Krem nods, he slips an extra couple of slices of meat onto the plate. As he’s carrying them back up the stairs, a shadow slips out and joins him. He starts, reaching for a dagger, but the shadow giggles at him. It’s Dalish.

‘You come like a war horn,’ she whispers, and punches him in the arm. ‘Its worse than your snoring.’

‘Piss off, Dalish’, he says sweetly, ‘or I’ll start sleeping in your tent.’

She pads softly down the stairs.

He opens the door with his feet, gently kicking it. Bull’s lying on the bed, twisting rope into shapes between his fingers.

He hands Bull a plate: ‘You got extra. Apparently those horns are good for something, after all.’

Bull laughs, and they sit quietly, eating and drinking. The sky has finally faded into proper darkness, and Bull lit candles whilst Krem was downstairs. 

‘So, Chief,’ Krem says, when he’s cleared his plate, ‘I haven’t seen the Chargers drill.’

‘You’ve got to remember they’re mercs.’ Bull replies, ‘I know you’ve got the military angle on this, and believe me, so’ve I. Drills got me through Seheron in one piece. But they’re…not so keen.’

Krem runs one hand through his hair. ‘Too many individual fighting styles for drills to feel comfortable. I get it. But maybe target practice, sparring, one-on-one’s.’

He pauses for a second and looks at Bull. The sex has made him feel drowsy, open, comfortable. But they’re Bull’s Chargers, not his, and he’s the new boy. No right to rock the boat. They’ve made it this far without his meddling.

‘You wanna talk to them? Go for it. They like you. And we could use some discipline. But find a way to make it interesting, huh? They like that.’

Krem’s eyes dance. Make it interesting? Maker, there are a thousand ways to make bored soldiers interested. Competition. Coin. Women. Beer. A lack of breeches. He’d been running drills before he was kicked out, he thinks bitterly, and the boys had loved them. 

‘Once made my lot play pin the tail on the nug, Chief,’ he says, grinning, ‘Kept ‘em occupied for three days. Should have seen the accuracy of the archers by the end.’

‘You use a live nug?’ Bull is chasing the last of the gravy round his plate with the dark bread they serve in these parts.

Krem snorts. ‘I made one. Out of velveteen we’d found in a looted caravan. Winner got to keep the nug. Competition was unholy.’

‘Is there anything you can’t do, Aclassi?’ Bull asks as he takes a final swig of his ale, sets the plate and cup neatly beside the bed.

‘Keep my eyes off you, Chief.’ Krem retorts before he can think about it, before he can kick himself for using such crappy chat-up lines.

‘Oh you smooth bastard’, Bull replies, moving down the bed to sit beside him, reminding Krem all over again just how huge this man is. ‘Got an idea’, Bull says, and Krem hears – is that hesitation? – in the qunari’s voice.

‘Pretty open to suggestions’, and Krem smiles, all teeth, hungry. Feels the wisps of heat already gathering in his stomach. He’s still slick. 

‘You wanna fuck me, this time?’ Bull asks. ‘I mean, if that’s a thing you’re into.’

Krem’s cock throbs. Apparently, yes, his body has decided, that is something he is very much into. He thinks of Bull on his back, hands round his cock, and yes. But then he remembers. Feels his insides curdle, wants to curl up.

‘Chief, I know that sex can make you forgetful, but, um, I still don’t exactly have the equipment for that.’ His voice sounds small. He knows it does. Apologetic and hateful and why can’t he just have a body that matches his fucking brain.

He feels a hand clap down, gently, over one shoulder. ‘When you like being fucked as much as I do, you learn to bring your own equipment. Gimme a moment.’

And then Bull slips out, leaves Krem cross-legged on the bed, wondering in Andraste’s ample bosom Bull can possibly mean.

 

Bull comes back with what could charitably be described as a sack. A neat sack, tied with what might once have been dawnstone-pink ribbons.

‘Krem’, Bull says, heaving the bag onto the bed, ‘meet my bag of dicks’.

And then, fairly unceremoniously, Bull starts pulling objects out of the bag.

They’re dicks. Or. Well. Krem knows that this sort of thing exists, rationally at least. Tevinter is full of shops with curtains you can’t walk beyond, and people talk. But he’s never actually seen any. And they’re so… He’d hesitate to call them pretty, exactly, but he picks up a slim phallus with a flared base, made of green-tinged stone and carved with a rune at the base, and – 

‘Hey, Chief?’ Bull lifts his eyes from where he’s lovingly pulling out what Krem suspects might be a marble dragon’s penis, ‘Where’d you get all of these?’

‘Ben-Hassrath standard issue’, Bull deadpans. ‘You get sent undercover, you get a bag of dicks.’ He glances at Krem. ‘Seriously, though, I’ve been collecting them for a long time. Guy’s gotta have a hobby. You like ‘em?’

Krem can’t stop grinning. He feels like a kid at Satinalia. He feels like Bull has accidentally revealed the secret of life to him. Its wonderful.

‘So talk me through them.’

Bull nods, pull something else out of the bag. Something leather, with straps and buckles, and for a second Krem wonders if it is some sort of restraint. 

‘Right. So. Having these means my partner doesn’t need to have them, right?’ Bull straightens out the leather contraption in his hand and Krem can see its some sort of harness. ‘So they can wear this. Some people have their own, maybe that’s something you’d like. I know a guy in Denerim. Anyway. You put it on, the toy fits in, in a way that means its good for you, too, and then everyone’s happy.’

‘Kaffas. Chief, you serious? Feels good for…’

‘Yeah. Hopefully feels like you’re fucking me. Lieutenant, you wanna pick one?’

Krem looks at them. They are in every conceivable size and shape, but he likes the one he first picked up. Something about the heft of it, the weight and shape, the way it… Well its green, so it doesn’t quite resemble the cock he would have had if the Maker hadn’t made him out of the remainders bin, but its certainly the sort of cock he’d like to have. If he was allowed to choose. Which, apparently, now he is.

‘This alright?’ And Bull must be able to see his great, broad grin. 

‘You picked well, ‘Vint. That one has an electricity rune carved on it. Its lovely’. And the way Bull says that suddenly reminds Krem that they’re in his room, and that the light is soft, and that Bull is signalling his interest via a not-so-subtle tenting of his trousers.

‘You wanna get these dicks off the bed? Pretty sure we only need two right now.’ He’s pleased when he makes Bull laugh. He kicks off his breeches again, his smallclothes, and lifts up the harness to look at it. 

Its nice, light, the leather soft, and easy to adjust. The cock slips in, presses up against his own with a pressure that he suspects is going to feel incredible. 

There’s a noise from the bed. Bull’s naked, reclining, and Krem realises that he’s just moaned, deep and low, that he’s got a hand wrapped round his dick at the sight of Krem in the harness. He looks down, sees how he looks. He has to agree with Bull. The way the cock sits, emerging from his neat thatch of dark hair, the way it looks like its his, like its always been his, is so overwhelming that he almost can’t think about it. He feels the way the straps sit over his ass.

‘Like what you see, Chief?’ He moves toward the bed, the cock bobbing ever so slightly as he moves. Bull just groans again. Vishante kaffas, Krem thinks, he might actually have shut the Chief up for the first time in his life.

‘Shit. You look…. like you should be up on this bed already.’

Krem happily sits himself up, over the Chief. Sinks down for a kiss. Hungry, again, as if the minutes since they kissed have somehow become far too long. Bull kisses hard, dirty, strong below him. Its like all the most electric moments of sparring rolled into one. Like a really good fight. They kiss, Bull running his hands down Krem’s back, Krem biting open-mouthed down Bull’s neck, hard enough to leave bruises. They’re both panting, hands everywhere, when Krem sits up.

‘Its coming off.’ He’s breathing heavily, can’t quite pull a proper lungful, and kaffas, its not like he feels vulnerable. He’s about to fuck the biggest, most terrifying man he’s ever met, and he’d like to be able to breath for it, thanks very much.

He fiddles with the lacing in the back of the binding, grinding his crotch along Bull’s hipbones as he does so, bumping against his cock, grinning when he feels it twitch.  
Looking Bull in the eye, he slips the binding off, tosses it to the end of the bed. Bull looks… as if all his Satinalia gifts have come at once.

‘Shit, Lieutenant. All that’ – he gestures broadly across Krem’s chest – ‘just from ‘Vint army training?’

And yeah, Krem is proud of how his body looks, at least the bits he likes.

‘Nah’, he replies, although he does visibly flex, ‘I’ve got – there are exercises. Its still not, you know, but at least its…’

Bull actually chuckles at this, pulls Krem forward. ‘You look fucking hot, and I think you’re aware of the reaction you’re having.’ He presses a small vial of oil into Krem’s hand – ‘so how about I get to enjoy more than just looking at you?’

That sends a wave of heat through Krem, and he leans back in, presses himself down the length of Bull’s body, feels the Qunari’s extraordinary skin, all heat and velvet, pressed up against his own. Experimentally, he drags his chest across Bull’s chest. Sensation sparks through his nipples, and he’s so surprised – and kaffas, so fucking turned on that he lets out a breathy moan, rubs harder. Between his legs, he can feel how wet he is, can feel the heavy pulse of arousal.

‘Bull...’ He vaguely gestures with the bottle, and Iron Bull grins at him. 

‘Shit. Yeah. One finger at a time. Slow.’ 

Krem shuffles himself into position, squeezing his thighs together to stop himself touching, getting himself off right then. Bull’s cock is leaking, hard and beautiful and it takes all of Krem’s self control not just to take it in his mouth until he’s full.

Instead, he dribbles oil down his fingers, down Bull, and gently, carefully, smoothes the oil around the smallest, most secret part of Bull.

Who makes a noise like he’s about to come. 

‘Fuck, Krem, fuck.’

‘Been a while, Chief?’ Krem smirks as he strokes, gently, one finger hovering over Bull’s entrance, not quite dipping inside. 

‘Just do it already, shit.’

The noises just increase when Krem slips the first finger in. Bull is hot, and tight, and silky, and so pliant under his touch, loud, hands reaching to get a grip on Krem anywhere he can. Krem leans over, unable to resist, kisses the very tip of his cock, and watches it bob, leak precum.

He works Bull open gently, so carefully, only adding the second finger when he’s calling him all the names under the sun, and writhing, if a man that size can be said to writhe.

He’s dripping. He knows he is, and its taking every shred of his self-control to stop himself from just sliding into the qunari, taking his pleasure.

Instead, he presses wet kisses down the inside of Bull’s thighs, distracting him as he slides in a third finger. He’s heard – but he isn’t even sure if qunari bodies are the same, and so he crooks his fingers in and up, hesitantly, seeing if – 

Bull arches off the bed, breath punched out of him. ‘Fuck, fuck, Krem. There. Yes. Don’t stop. Shit. Fuck. More.’

‘You ready? You want me inside you? You want me to fuck you, Chief?’

Iron Bull just lets out a string of obscenities that can probably be heard all the way to the Storm Coast. 

 

‘Didn’t catch that. Do you want me to fuck you?’

This time, Bull props himself up on his elbows, looks Krem dead in the eye. ‘Just get inside me already, ‘vint.’

That’s all the encouragement that Krem needs. Slowly, and so carefully, he withdraws his fingers, lines himself up, and pushes in. 

Bull breathes heavy as Krem pushes in, trying to keep himself relaxed. It’s been ages since he was fucked, properly. It’s been even longer since it was someone as irresistible, as foul-mouthed and radiant as the vint currently pushing into him so, so slowly, as if afraid he’ll break. He loves the stretch of it, the way it feels to be opened up, placed in someone else’s care. And he likes that it’s Krem. Strong and brave and shit, so fucking hot.

‘Go on, that’s right, fuck me.’ He growls, as Krem bottoms out. The cock is good inside him. Slim and smooth but still enough to be keenly felt. And Krem’s nothing if not good at taking instruction. He rests for a second and then pulls back, almost all the way out. And then he fucks into Bull. Short strokes, deep and steady. Adjusts himself, ever so slightly, and there it is. Right there, hitting with every thrust to make him see stars.

He’s so wound up in his pleasure, the way Krem is fucking the breath out of him, that it takes him a second to hear Krem’s moans. Short, and tight, and like he’s on the edge but holding himself back. 

‘Fuck, the rune, it makes it feel – shit, Bull, I can’t, I’m going to…’

But despite the heavy lust in his voice, Krem keeps fucking him, beautiful long strokes that make his blood sing. He feels his own heat building, sparking, as he looks at Krem’s spit-slick lips, swollen and bitten, sees his eyes sparkling with it. He reaches down to touch his cock.

Krem bats the Chief’s hand away from his cock. It’s so heavy now, bobbing in time to Krem’s thrusts, and there’s a pool of slick on his stomach. Krem takes his weight onto one arm, and wraps a hand round Bull’s cock himself. He’s so hot, so heavy, and Krem can tell by his moans that he’s close.

He’s sweating, moisture beading over his collar bone, over his brow. The room smells like sex, Bull’s heat steaming the windows. He can breathe, and it feels fucking incredible. 

Between his own legs, the strap-on feels like its always belonged to him. It pushes heat, electricity against his cock every time he fucks into Bull, and the sensations are so sharp and sweet that he can tell he’s not going to last much longer. He wants Bull to come first, though, wants to bring him over the edge, wants to know he’s fucked his orgasm out of him.

So he moves deeper, making Bull groan, working his cock in time, until the pitch of Bull’s moans changes, and he’s suddenly gripping the sheets, and – 

‘That’s it, Chief. Come on, come for me. Come on my cock.’ Krem’s murmuring a litany of filth as he fucks Bull. Then suddenly, Bull’s coming, tight around Krem’s cock. Krem wonders if he’s ever seen anything so magnificent. Iron Bull is moaning, eyes locked on Krem’s, biting his bottom lip as he comes, thick white ropes. He’s never seen anyone come like this. Bull is so open, so happy to be watched in his pleasure. Pleasure that Krem has brought him. Something flickers through him – a feeling he pushes down, concentrating on taking the qunari underneath him to pieces. 

He fucks Bull through it, the contractions sending spools of heat through him, the rune making everything tingle until he can hardly bear it. Bull’s seed streaks up his chest, long white ropes, and before he’s even finished, Krem feels it.

‘I’m – oh, kaffas – Bull…’ He breaks off. He stills himself inside Iron Bull, aware that perhaps Bull is oversensitive, now, but unable to do anything except feel. It’s incredible. It feels, he feels, like it is his cock. He can feel Bull, hot and tight around him. He gives himself over to his orgasm. The pleasure comes in heavy waves, washing over him. The rune pulses pleasure through him, and he can feel the pulses over his whole body. He thinks that he might pass out from the pleasure of it, feels like he’s burning inside with sparkling flame.

Just as he reaches the end of the final wave, body vibrating with pleasure, he gently pulls out of Bull. He slips off the harness – the rune has stopped buzzing, as if it knew, which he isn’t going to think about – but the pressure is still too much. He makes a frustrated noise, and Bull rolls over, helps get it over his feet.

He’s going to be courteous, get up and get Bull the washcloth in just a moment. Just a moment. Perhaps when he can feel his legs again, or once his head’s stopped spinning.

‘Chief? That was – I mean…’

‘Yeah.’ Bull says. It’s the sort the of noise that opens like a book, lets Krem see inside it for a second. Bull’s boneless on the bed, filling it except for the space under one arm where Krem is very comfortably curled, one arm slung over him. They’re both still naked, and Krem wonders if that will feel strange, in a second, when he isn’t fucked out and happy.

‘Hey Krem’, Bull says, quiet, eyes gently closed. They’re both still breathing a little quick, running a little hotter than usual. The tavern is heavy-quiet with sleep, and Krem feels, for a second, as if the little room where everything feels so good might be the only place in the world. It takes him a moment to answer.

‘Yes, Chief?’ 

‘You ok?’

Krem snorts, gently. ‘I should be asking you that. Yeah, I’m good. Better than good.’ He stretches, feeling the stiffness in his shoulders. ‘Although I can’t believe I spent the evening fucking a qunari, when I could have been having a bath.’

Bull ruffles his hair. ‘And you do stink like shit, Krem.’

Krem isn’t sure when they fall asleep, but when he wakes up, with the sun pouring into the windows, they’re both still naked, and Bull’s spooning him so aggressively that he’s got no hope of going anywhere. He lies like that for a few minutes, but he know’s what is coming. Skinner is always the first one out of bed and within a few seconds she’s hammering at the door.

‘You got the Chief, Krem?’

He feels Bull wake behind him. He goes from sound asleep to fully awake in a second, like a soldier, or a spy. Or both. Krem reaches behind himself blindly, rubs across Bull’s shoulder. 

‘Go and find breakfast, Skinner. We’ll be down.’

She lets of a string of Dalish phrases, almost certainly lewd, and they can hear her feet on the stairs.

‘Sore this morning, Chief?’ Krem rolls over until he’s facing the qunari. He hopes that the morning won’t have changed Bull’s keenness for what happened last night, hopes he won’t regret it. But Bull’s fingers in his hair, and mouth on his, gentle, greeting, tell him otherwise.

‘Not so sore I couldn’t go a second round.’

Krem laughs. ‘Well good for you, but someone in this bed said we had to be packed and on the road by seven bells, and it wasn’t me.’

They stand, dress quickly, quietly. Krem passes Bull his trousers, Bull laces the back of the binder for him. They gather things up, and when Krem’s hand falls on the cock, still in its harness, Bull draws breath. Krem looks up at him, inquiring.

‘You… you wanna keep that one?’ Bull gestures expansively at the sack he’s retying. ‘Not like I’m short of them, and that one kinda suits you. At least until we can get you one you prefer.’

Krem will swear there’s no lump forming in his throat. He’s a soldier –a merc. They’re going to eat, and fight, and fuck until one or all them are dead, and there they are, in this tavern room, Bull being kind and gracious like it costs him nothing, like its all entirely normal, like he isn’t saving Krem’s life over and over.

‘Thanks, Chief.’ 

And Bull slaps him across the back, big and wide as his grin, and they open the door and go down for breakfast, and Krem knows he’s going to face a tableful of Chargers, just waiting to wolf whistle. 

It should feel embarrassing. He should be worried that he and Bull haven’t talked about whatever it is that happened, and if its going to happen again, and whether or not it's a thing. But he isn’t worried. He feels happy. Happy, and he can’t remember the last time that happiness has just sat there, in his chest, with no other emotion jostling beside it.

Bull is family. The Chargers, who’re about to give him hell, are family. There’s a long road ahead of them, coin on the horizon, and reports of demons pouring from the sky further south. From the smell of it, there’s even bacon for breakfast.

There’s really nowhere else he’d rather be.

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you enjoyed it! Please do leave a comment if you did! Or didn't! Or have thoughts! Or just want to ask more questions about Antivan Brandy or Rocky's great skills at the forge ;)
> 
> xx


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